“What are we…?” Neil began, but then Brian held up a finger.
There it was, he thought with a wry smile. Distant at first, then slowly growing louder; the rumble of a huge engine. Neil turned, looking down the road in time to see a pair of headlights growing closer and closer.
“Is that?”
“Yup.”
“But there’s no-one driving it!”
“Yup.”
Bertha rumbled, accelerating down the empty suburban road towards them. Brian grinned at the genius of his idea, then suddenly his smile vanished to be replaced by a look of apprehension. The car was closing fast and showed no signs of stopping anytime soon. Closer, she roared, louder, and with a look of panic on his face, Brian turned and sprinted away from the gates and leaping up to a low-hanging tree branch, just as the Camaro smashed through the gates with her indestructible face, snapping the chain like fishing line, before screeching to a halt but ten feet from where he clung.
“This just keeps getting better and better,” Neil declared, giggling like a child as he strode into the now open cemetery. “She’s not even got a mark on her! How’s that even possible?”
Brian dropped out of the tree, surprisingly managing to land on his feet.
“Unicorn piss,” he offered by way of explanation.
“Of course, why didn’t I think of that?”
Her master’s summons now answered, Bertha switched off her engine and waited patiently, as the two began to make their way slowly and cautiously into the cemetery proper. It was dark, creepy, all rows of graves, some tended to, shiny and new, others forgotten about, hundreds of years of weather and erosion causing them to all but topple, the names of those buried beneath long-since erased by the uncaring Cornish rain.
“We’ll have to be quick,” Brian whispered. “Someone might have called the rozzers; Bertha’s entrance made enough noise to wake the dead.”
“Somehow I think they’re already awake,” Neil whispered in reply, pointing ahead.
Brian followed Neil’s questing finger, his eyes widening first in surprise, then fear.
Was this the banshee, he thought, before wondering at his own stupidity; how many floating, spectral women in eighteenth century dress could there possibly be? The figure floated about the graveyard, passing through stones and trees as though she were no more substantial than mist and, as he watched her, Brian started at how accurate the woodcuts and paintings on the powerpoint presentation had been. The banshee was a slim woman, her age hard to determine, what with being nigh-translucent, with a pretty face upon which was writ forlorn sorrow, and wholly inappropriate curves that all but fell out of her gossamer white dress that flapped as though in some unfelt breeze.
“Dude… your date is pretty hot for a dead girl.”
Before Brian could even dart a dark look at his friend, the banshee paused and opened her mouth, staring into the sky and wringing her hands as if in some great torment. And then she screamed, the keening wail that washed out across the cemetery, the town and the moor beyond, filled with rage, pain and carrying with it terror itself. And Brian and Neil, but a few dozen feet away, bore the brunt of it.
They ran, fleeing as fast as their trembling legs and pounding hearts could carry them, back towards the car, having about as much control over their actions as hungry dog in a butcher’s back room. Finally, after long moments, the haunting wail ceased and the pair began to slow, their pulse thundering in their ears. They stopped by the car, hands on knees, breathing hard.
“The hell was that all about?” Neil gasped.
“I forgot to warn you,” Brian huffed and puffed in reply. “They do that, so I’ve been told. We should have been wearing ear-defenders.”
With that, he popped the boot of the Camaro, picking up the two pairs of ear-defenders and handing one to Neil. Before they could even place them on their heads, the banshee wailed once more, and once again the two were off, this time out of the gates and some way down the road before the cry ended.
“Jesus,” Neil panted. “How often is she going to do that?”
“Every time someone dies, apparently,” Brian replied, wiping sweat from his brow.
“This is Bodmin, not fucking Midsomer!”
Wasting no time, the two placed the ear-defenders on their heads, before nodding at each other and purposefully striding back towards the cemetery. All they needed to do was get to the banshee, flirt with her a bit, then hopefully she’d bugger off and they – and the people of Bodmin – would finally be able to sleep.
“What’s the plan?” Neil asked.
“What?”
“What?”
Shit, thought Brian. He hadn’t thought this through.
Chapter Eighteen:
Cyrano De Bergertwat
Neil nodded to him from where he was crouched behind the gravestone, giving a big thumbs up as though this was a walk in the park, not a terror in a cemetery. I know where you can stick your thumb, thought Brian; I’m the one out here with a fricking deadly, man-hating banshee.
At least she was easy on the eye, if not the ears.
She’d cried out once more as they’d approached, this time the terror, dulled by the ear-defenders, not quite enough to send them packing into the night, though still enough to turn Brian’s already weak knees to jelly. But now at least she was silent again, seemingly content to float about and sob quietly to herself. Brian had never had to comfort a crying woman before; his mum had died first and his dad hadn’t been one for tears, not his own, at least. A nasty man, his dad had been; the bottle his friend, his son a stranger. Though such dark, distracting thoughts weren’t going to help him this night, not when he was supposed to be wooing.
“What are you waiting for?” Neil called out from his hiding place. “Say hello!”
“WHAT?”
At Brian’s bellowed question, the banshee turned, frowning as she saw him. Brian gulped as he turned back to face her, raising a trembling hand and waving a pathetic hello.
“Err, hi. Come here often?”
At his faltering words, the banshee’s frown of confusion turned to a mask of rage. Brian’s eyes widened as her long, dainty fingers suddenly erupted with talons that burst from the ends. He almost froze to the spot in fear, then Gertie’s words of training whispered into his ear and he obeyed, darting to one side. And just in time; seconds later those deadly claws whistled through the air right where he’d been stood. The banshee turned to him with a hiss, as though frustrated and confused that she’d missed her mark.
“Introduce yourself!” Neil shouted, loud enough now that Brian could hear him, if only muffled.
“I’m Brian,” Brian told her, face almost as pasty white as her own, holding a trembling hand out in greeting. “What’s your name?” The banshee screeched. “That’s an interesting name,” he replied, before launching to one side again, rolling in the grass, just as she lunged again. “It’s not working!” he called out to Neil.
“What?”
“I said it’s not fucking working!” he screamed.
“Compliment her! Tell her she’s pretty!”
Brian half-jumped, half-fell out of the way of another well-telegraphed attack, before clambering to his feet once more.
“You’ve got very nice… eyes,” he told her, trying to tear his gaze from her spectral breast. “And very, erm, see-through skin.”
The banshee stared at him, obviously as uncomfortable at the exchange as he, before Neil called out once more, his eyes glistening with what Brian could only assume were tears of laughter.
“See-through? You’ve gotta do better than that, mate.”
“What?”
“Better!”
Wet her? How would that help, Brian pondered, even as he dashed to one side out of the way of another swish of tearing claws. He was getting frustrated now, flirting wasn’t his game, it didn’t come naturally to him like it did to Neil. Neil obviously thought so too, as, to Brian’s mounting dread, he climbed up from his hid
ing place behind the gravestone and strode out onto the grass, shaking his head.
“Let me show you how it’s done, amateur.”
Before Brian could even call out in warning, the banshee had already turned at his words, eyeing this new man with the baleful glare only a scorned woman could possess. Neil, much to Brian’s consternation, seemed as ever unfazed.
“Hi,” he smiled, putting on his best charming voice and fixing her with his blue eyes. “I’m Neil. Now I know what you’re thinking, you’ve been hurt by men before, but let me tell you; I’m different. I’m a nice guy. And all I want to do is to get to know the woman behind those hurting eyes…”
The banshee paused for a moment and Brian blinked, nonplussed. Had it really been that easy? But then even as Neil continued to approach, smile on his face and hands raised to placate her and show he meant no harm, the ring on Brian’s finger vibrated in warning. And he knew that Neil was doomed. Had he been moving sideways, not in a straight line towards her, perhaps he would have had a chance to escape, the spirit, despite her supernatural speed, slashing at empty air. As it was, Neil didn’t have the advantage of Gertie’s instruction. The banshee began to move, soaring towards the lad, one clawed hand raised and ready to sweep down to end him. Even as Neil’s smile began to vanish and fear began to register in his eyes, Brian knew that he would never be able to dodge in time. No, he couldn’t let Neil die. It was his fault he was even here and in the path of an angry spectre! But what could he do? He couldn’t hope to run the twenty yards in time. He stared at Neil’s frightened face, burning his image into his mind in case it might be the last time he laid eyes upon his friend.
A puff of black smoke and suddenly Neil was before him, but a foot away.
Brian shoved with all his might with both hands, launching Neil clean from his feet and several yards away, to land on his arse on the grass, well out of the path of the angry banshee. Sudden, flaring pain erupted down his back, the sensation of his own skin tearing, the hot tickle of blood trickling down his back as he gasped in pain at the banshee’s touch. Even as he grimaced, the spirit now raising her hand anew, ready to strike him a killing blow, Neil stared up at him, a mixture of wonder and fear writ large upon his face.
“You just… you just… teleported…”
“Enough!” Brian yelled, before pointing a wavering finger at his fallen friend. “Enough with your childish enthusiasm. It nearly got you killed!” The banshee behind let out a bloodcurdling cry, causing him to wince despite his earmuffs and he spun on the spot, waving his admonishing finger in her face now. “And enough with your fucking crying!” The banshee paused and became silent mid-scream, one hand and its sharp talons poised high, her face frozen, mouth open and eyes confused. “You think you had it bad because you were rejected once? Once? Let me tell you about rejection missy, because I know more about it than you do. Pretty much every girl I approach on a night out sneers and turns me down, chatting and laughing about me to their mates. And you know what? I don’t blame them; because it’s a me problem, not a them problem. I’m gangly, I’m awkward, I am distinctly lacking in social skills and it’s all my fault because I shut myself away and play games rather than dealing with real life and all the confusing people in it. The only girls who’ve ever shown interest in me were my ex who stole my dog and a bloody vampire who wanted nothing more than to suck my blood from my god-damned neck.” He paused for breath for a moment. The banshee remained frozen. Neil looked on in bewilderment as Brian continued his tirade. “You think you had it rough because a man rejected you? Well let me tell you something; that man, whoever he might have been, was clearly an idiot. Even now, two-hundred years dead, you’re still a knock-out. Look at you; long, wavy hair, stunning face, perfect hourglass figure. Not a bad set of pipes on you either. You could have been on X-Factor if you wouldn’t have made everyone stampede for the doors. You see what you’re not getting is that it was a him problem, not a you problem. And that’s better; for every him, there’s a thousand others that weren’t him. If you’d forgotten about whatever Irish Stevie Wonder you’d been pursuing, you’d have found one and no doubt been loved and appreciated for who you are. Do you get what I’m saying? Am I making myself heard loud and clear?”
The banshee floated before him and now all Brian could think about, his anger ebbing away, was that she was at any moment going to resume her attack. And yet strangely, she didn’t. Instead, those long razor talons began to recede into her fingers. Her face softened from its fearful gaze of before, her eyes taking on a softness, her full lips, a smile. Brian stood, confused, unsure whether to run. The ring wasn’t vibrating, warning of impending danger. Instead, as Brian gazed up at the apparition, she drew closer, slowly this time.
And kissed him on the lips, her touch icy cold, before exploding into a shower of bright, glistening sparks that slowly faded away into the moonlit sky.
Brian exhaled the banshee’s breath, icy cold as it misted into the air, as Neil rose alongside him.
“I never knew you had it in you,” Neil whispered in hushed, awestruck tones. “I thought all along it might be some big, long-running joke, that you, of all people, might be the Helsing, protector of the Earth. Ridiculous. I’ve only known you a couple of years, but even in that brief time the depths of spinelessness and social awkwardness I’ve seen you sink to have never ceased to amaze me. But what you just did, the things I’ve seen you do. I couldn’t even do them. I think they might be right, you know… I think you might really be the Chosen One.”
Brian turned to him, face impassive.
“WHAT?”
“Nothing mate,” Neil laughed, slapping him on the back and causing him to all-but double over in agony. “Shit, we need to get that looked at. She really tore you a new one before your little speech.”
“I don’t feel good,” Brian whimpered, gazing down at the blood dripping down to the cemetery lawn. “I think I need a… shower,” he managed to croak out, before finally fainting into the grass.
Epilogue:
The Chosen One
So much had happened the last couple of days. So much he’d learned about himself, mainly how cowardly and awkward he still was despite the fantastic gifts bestowed upon him by the ring. He’d encountered vampires, twice, and a banshee once, escaping the first two by luck and panic, in equal measure, and ending the latter confrontation with no less than a ghostly snog. He’d written off one car and would have done another too, had it not proved invulnerable. He’d fired a gun for the first time, all-but destroying a room and scaring the shit out of himself in the process. He’d learned kung fu, after a fashion, or rather had it demonstrated upon him with somewhat too much enthusiasm by a girl he was beginning to have rather conflicting feelings about. He’d at once lost his job, and at the same time become rich beyond his wildest dreams. He’d learned magic, too, not card tricks, but real, proper, Dr Strange-style spells. He’d taken upon himself a mantle, a destiny, wrapping about him thick chains of tradition and duty far too strong for anything but his own demise to break. He was a Helsing, latest in a line of glorious and proud demon-hunters, protectors of the innocent, champions of the light. He was, in a very real way, a modern superhero. He was a dark knight.
And yet why did he feel like a joker?
Despite the slowly changing attitudes of the Masters, despite Heimlich’s assurances, Gertie’s smiles, despite even the whispered words of the long-dead Helsing, first of his name, Brian couldn’t help but feel a fraud. Couldn’t help but think he wasn’t worthy. Things like this happened to men who deserved it. Not men with no backbone, with no skill, with no strength other than that granted them by supernatural means beyond their ken. His had been a life of self-pity, of hopelessness. Of late nights playing games with fake internet friends, and even later nights rubbing himself raw to fake internet porn, before waking the next day sore and full of shame. His was the embarrassing tongue-tied utterance to a pretty girl, the witty putdown to a bully thought of far too late. It felt like a
travesty that such a life had been thrust upon him when there were so many out there no doubt far more deserving of such powers, of such wealth, of such adoration.
Don’t be a blithering idiot all your life, lad.
Brian started, surprised, and looked up; there in the rune-etched glass before him, a familiar shape, one that should by all rights have been within a different glass, far below. That wide-brimmed hat, long leather trenchcoat, so similar to those he’d been wearing himself. And those eyes that twinkled in a lined and weathered face, glimmering with amusement. And something else too; respect.
You’ve got balls, Brian. I told you that, right at the beginning. And it’s high time you started believing it yourself.
But I’m an idiot, you said that yourself too, twice now. And in all honesty, despite the powers, the training, the gizmos and gadgets, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to change. Some things just are. I’m always going to be an idiot.
The spectre shrugged.
Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows? Perhaps an idiot is what this world needs right now.
Unlikely, Brian thought. Helsing XII smiled.
And that is precisely what you are; Brian Helsing, the World’s Unlikeliest Vampire Hunter. Wear that mantle with pride, lad. Use it to your advantage. I died, and I was one of the best. The demons of the world are wising up to the tricks of us old hands. Maybe it takes a newer, less steady hand at the tiller in this crazy world.
And with that, the apparition faded.
The blazing sigils in the stone above and below began to sizzle out, the rush of magic dying, the tingling fading from his skin and leaving only a dull ache in his back to betray the wound ever having been there. The glass door opened and Brian stepped out from the Healing Shower, to find the Masters there, waiting for him.
“That was quite a blow she dealt you, Helsing,” Heimlich commented. “Took a while to heal, even with the shower at full-whack. I’m assuming you’ll be telling us how you want to go home, go back to your old life? That the terrifying life of a demon-hunter was never meant for such as you?”
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